


Lady

by ShameWithoutSin



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Adult Content, Affairs, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Gritty, Homelessness, Jealousy, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Medication, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29306445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShameWithoutSin/pseuds/ShameWithoutSin
Summary: She was unlike anything he had ever seen, and yet she was so familiar. He would fashion jewels from the stars for her if only he could. Modern AU set in Chicago, circa 2005
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 51
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is titled after the song Lady by Regina Spektor and I think it sets the tone fairly well.

Sirens blared and he stepped to the right, cutting down an unfamiliar alleyway, two fingers tapping the edge of his mask just to be sure it was in place. He couldn't think of a reason they were meant for him at this moment, but one could never be too sure. He had barely skirted around the law too many times and he knew better than to get too cocky about it.

It was luck, perhaps the only thing he had luck in, and he knew it was in limited supply.

A door opened and two people stepped into the alleyway, heading in the opposite direction, neither of them seeming to notice him. He slid his hand into the door before it could close and gave a glance over his shoulder before he slipped inside.

It wasn't until the door closed behind him with a heavy click that he realized he may have made a mistake. He definitely wasn't supposed to be… well, wherever it was that he was. He hadn't the slightest idea. He had expected some sort of apartment building where he could slip through and out a different exit, but it definitely wasn't an apartment.

He frowned, lifting the lid on one of the many crates piled haphazardly around the little cement room so that he could peek inside. Liquor. Bottles and bottles of liquor. He had certainly found worse things.

The problem was, he couldn't think of a bar that he had been nearby. Erik prided himself on his sense of direction. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually been lost. It was one of the advantages he had; he knew the city as intimately as he knew the back of his own hand.

Or, he thought he had.

Curiosity found him pulling his dark hood up, hoping he could somehow manage to blend well enough as he made his way down the bright grey cement hallway, hanging close to the right wall. He could hear voices but they were far away and muffled, distanced enough that he wasn't immediately concerned with them. He took the first right he came to and the voices seemed to be getting more distant as he made his way, trailing two fingers along the pitted concrete wall.

It was when he began to hear the strains of music that he felt his sanity at least slightly restored. He couldn't think of any bar on that particular block because it wasn't actually a bar; it was an old-style jazz club. It came to life every Friday, Saturday and Sunday evening, laying dark and dormant for the remainder of the week. It was easy enough to miss, just a small thing that pulled a crowd of a couple hundred on the nights that it was open. Busy enough, sure, but if one didn't frequent the street it would pass their notice entirely. He knew exactly where he was and the thought comforted him. He could picture the single neon sign that stood near the front door, simple and plain, four buzzing red letters that simply read "jazz". Even those that may have actually been seeking it would easily miss it.

He had never been inside of the small establishment, but it was warm, the sirens were outside and not inside, and he thought there was no time like the present. He slipped through a wooden door, careful not to swing it completely open, and was relieved to find that the room beyond it was dim, the walls a dark oaky wood. It wouldn't be terribly difficult to blend, so long as he stuck to the outskirts and didn't draw attention to himself.

Erik did exactly that, keeping his hood low and doing his best to push through the small crowd of people filling the room without actually touching anyone, until he finally made it to the small and completely unoccupied table in the back corner that he had spotted.

The murmur of chatter around the room didn't approach him and he set his eyes curiously on the girl that appeared to be setting up on the small stage. She was a slight thing, maybe just over five feet, slender and pale. She was all curls and frills, her red dress maybe a few shades too dark for her pale complexion and golden-yellow curls, but when she turned he was near ready to take his assessment back.

He leaned against the table. She was a pretty thing to look at, at least, even if he did end up finding disappointment in the music. She looked to be in her mid twenties, youthful but not quite childish. The dark wine-colored lipstick she wore didn't seem incredibly out of place, and the frown she wore almost seemed like it was etched permanently in its place. Even from across the room, it was near impossible to not notice the sadness that seemed to live in her.

There was no introduction, no announcement of a name or piece. The music began suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, and he watched as she finally opened her mouth.

She was sad and nothing about her or her performance did anything to combat his initial assessment. Her voice had more depth than he had first anticipated but it was the mournful aura that seemed to surround her that truly compelled his rapt attention. There was something familiar there.

He stared at her, fully enraptured. He had only meant to linger through a song, maybe two, but it was at least four before he remembered himself and thought to glance around.

One of the many luxuries that Erik couldn't afford was lingering. He no longer had the excuse of sirens; they had long since passed. It was a regretful sort of thing. If there had ever been a time to linger, that was certainly it.

He pulled his hood just a little lower, allowing himself another moment or two to gaze at her, her pretty dress and shining halo of golden curls, before he slipped wordlessly away from the still rudely chattering crowd.

The lobby of the little club was far more welcoming than the store rooms had been and as he glanced around, to his dismay, he found that there still wasn't the slightest hint as to the girl's identity. With a frown that he was fairly sure matched her own, he slipped back out onto the chilly street, sidestepping a drunken man puffing on a cigarette and loudly shouting at a woman walking the opposite direction across the street.

With a sigh, he allowed his feet to carry him East, huddling under the sweatshirt that hardly managed to cut the chill.


	2. Chapter 2

It was raining and the drops were bitterly cold. It was always one of the first clues that winter was fast approaching. At times he contemplated taking cues from the birds and migrating south for the harsher months, but he was smart enough to know that shelter was far easier to find in the city than it would be anywhere else. As was food.

And tourists made for particularly easy prey that he wasn't sure he would survive without. His long, shaking fingers slid into the pink purse he had been eyeing for two blocks and emerged with a wallet. It was quickly transferred to his pocket and casually, he made his way across the street.

He waited until he was two blocks in the opposite direction to actually look at it, opening the nondescript black wallet and digging through it as though he had lost something.

The gift cards were worth keeping, credit cards would be deposited in the garbage bin. The girl that smiled back at him from the student ID was young. Wyoming. Only twenty dollars in cash and a small sprinkling of change. It was enough for a hot meal, at least, and he would content himself with that.

The wallet, emptied of everything that was of any use to him, was casually deposited into the next trash bin he passed by.

Erik couldn't say, for certain, that it was rain and not snow. It was ungodly cold, the wind seeming to whip straight through him. The already useless jacket he wore was damp and clung to him uncomfortably. With the small amount of money safely tucked away deep in his pocket, he set his eyes to search for somewhere where he could escape the steady drizzle. The subway was always an option and he had passed more than one night huddled there underground, his hood pulled low and chin to his chest as he took up unnoticed space on a bench, but the chill had settled deep into his bones and he knew that it wouldn't be enough. He needed to dry out, at the very least.

He was in a unique position. Erik had nothing and no one. There was no warm couch or hot shower awaiting him once a week if he simply knocked on the right door. Over the last winter, on a particularly bitter day, he had finally decided that he needed to humble himself and seek some sort of help before frostbite actually settled in.

The shelters turned him away. One particularly soft-hearted woman had offered him a windbreaker with the tips of her fingers and a halfway frightened apology. They couldn't accept a man with no ID and a mask, and he couldn't bring himself to remove it. If the mask frightened them into turning him out into subzero temperatures he didn't want to know what the face under it would lead them to do.

His fingers shook so badly that he struggled to unscrew the top of his little silver flask - one of his only possessions that he was fairly sure hadn't been stolen. He wasn't sure who it had belonged to, father, grandfather perhaps. He only knew that the sloppy initials etched into it weren't his own. It helped. He found that if he could maintain just the slightest buzz, it warmed him from the inside when he couldn't find a place to actually warm himself.

He screwed the cap back on, slipping it back into his jacket pocket, and when he looked up he froze in the center of the sidewalk.

Aimlessly he had wandered but when he looked up, he was met with four buzzing neon red letters. "JAZZ".

Someone pushed past him, their shoulder bumping his aggressively, and he told himself that if it wasn't so goddamn cold, he would have kept walking.

Almost on its own, his hand pulled the door open and he was entering the semi-familiar darkened lobby.

It was early yet and he loitered near the darkened corners, knowing that he would have to step back out. If he drew too much attention, he was sure that he would be kicked out before he could leave. So he allowed himself a few moments of luxury in the heated lobby, doing his best to keep his face turned away from passer-bys, and then he stepped back out into the miserable and near constant drizzle.

It wasn't quite as miserable as it had been. The rain slowed to a misty sort of drizzle, inescapable without walls, but light enough that it was more of an inconvenience than a threat. He wasn't sure why exactly his feet carried him around the block and back down the alleyway, he only knew that they did and he followed them, knowing that he had time to waste before he could dare to slip back inside the building.

It wasn't until he had nearly made it to that back door that he saw her and froze.

She was huddled back in the alleyway beside that very first nondescript door he had slipped through, puffing quietly on a cigarette. Her jacket was long, black, but he could see the teasing of a blue skirt trying to escape. Her hair had begun to frizz, the golden curls looking just a bit less silky than they had the week before. He would never know what possessed him to approach her instead of finding someplace else to linger.

"Smoking will ruin your voice."

"Frank Sinatra smoked a whole pack before his shows," she countered, shivering in the lingering drizzle of rain and pulling her jacket a little tighter. "Said it kept his voice smooth."

"Frank Sinatra is dead."

She took another slow, thoughtful drag and let the smoke wisp from between her wine colored lips. "If only we could all be so lucky," she mumbled. "What's your deal, anyway? I've seen you. Why are you always wearing that thing?"

She didn't have to gesture, as she so kindly did, for him to know that she was talking about his mask. He shifted on his feet. "Because I am hideously ugly underneath it," he answered honestly.

Her laugh was a huff and she tapped the ash off of her cigarette. "Yeah, me too," she said, seeming to watch him out of the corner of her eye. "I think mine would probably hurt more to take off though."

"You have a lovely voice."

That same frown he had seen the very first night made a reappearance, more contemplative than it was sad. "Thanks," she mumbled, taking yet another drag off of the white cigarette between her fingers. "You stalking me or something?"

There wasn't an ounce of fear to be found in her at the notion. She spoke the words as simply and easily as if she were discussing the weather. "Not yet," he answered, watching her as he shifted just a bit closer to her. "Simply admiring."

"Admiring," she echoed with a breathy laugh. "I'm thinking of quitting, you know."

"That would be a grave sin," he answered seriously. "It is your soul, and it brings me great joy, hearing you sing."

"I have no soul left," she answered, the words melancholic and serious. She took another shivering drag from her cigarette and finally fixed her pretty blue eyes on him, pillowing her head against the brick of the building as she looked up at him. "Tell me, do you come for my voice?" she murmured thoughtfully. "Or do you come to fantasize about my legs wrapped around your neck later?"

"I come for your sadness," he countered, brazenly plucking the burning cigarette from between her fingers. "And because I still hope to learn your name."

"Christine," she answered on a huff, unmoving. "Give it back."

Hi pinched the filter between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up between them and looking at the purple-red stain of her lipstick under his fingertips. "If you are going to quit something, it should be this," he said seriously. "It will kill you twice, Christine."

When she reached up and took it back, her fingers brushed against his. "And what's your name, then?"

"Erik."

"Erik," she murmured in return, her voice low. "I thank you for the unsolicited and unnecessary advice. We ladies can be quite silly sometimes. It's good to have a man around to keep us straight."

He might have found himself offended at her implication if she wasn't so close to him. There was something guarded in her eyes as she stared back at him unblinking.

"I think you lie," she said slowly. "I think if I fucked you right now, you would be gone come next week."

It was like she had stolen the breath from his lungs. When he laid his hand against the brick it wasn't to lean in on her, it was simply to keep himself upright. "You're wrong," he answered when his mind finally caught up with him.

"Am I?" she murmured, holding eye contact with him. "About what? You do want to fuck me, don't you, Erik?"

"You are a beautiful woman," he mumbled.

"And you would give me the sun, the stars and the moon," she said softly. "I've heard it all. My voice is lovely, and when I look out the next week, they're gone."

He swallowed, watching her breathlessly as her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

"I have to go, Erik," she said, her free hand pressing against his chest to push him away. "I'm here on Sundays. Every Sunday."

He took a step back, giving her room, and she took one more drag off of her cigarette before she tossed the burning thing toward the center of the alleyway.

"Maybe I'll see you."


	3. Chapter 3

Sundays.

He was absolutely intrigued. For the first time, when he pushed through the streets, simple survival wasn't the only thing on his mind.

_Or do you come to fantasize about my legs wrapped around your neck later?_

The thought was one that struck him deep to his core. The truth was, he hadn't had that image in his head. Not until she said it, and now it was lodged deep there and he simply couldn't shake it out. He found himself wondering if she would sing just as sadly for him under those circumstances as she did from the short stage.

She would. He was almost certain of it.

Sundays. Every Sunday. The thought looped through his mind every so often, a gentle reminder to himself so that he wouldn't forget.

He spent the majority of the week lingering outside of shops, nonchalantly glancing through the windows and at the clothing lining the racks. He had no washer or dryer, and even with a handful of quarters he couldn't very well run a load of laundry when he had nothing to wear in the meantime. Usually it was fairly low on his list of priorities, but he was nearly certain that he was at least beginning to smell, and he only had until Sunday to make some small miracle occur. In his distraction, he lost focus, and he only had the smallest amount of cash tucked deep in his pocket, the bills wrinkled and torn. He couldn't afford a replacement, and so he would simply have to take it.

It was beyond time anyway, he thought. His jacket was well-worn and he needed something thicker desperately.

The larger, and cheaper, the store, the easier. He was under no illusion that he was going to work enough of a miracle to impress her, but he would happily settle for being clean. His emaciation was sometimes helpful; he could fit quite a bit under the sweatshirt that was far too large for him and so long as they were long enough, just about anything could fit with a belt. Not well, he wasn't even sure that clothing was actually made in his size, but well enough to get by.

It was a shower that was the true challenge. At times he had gotten particularly creative, finding single-person restrooms that he could lock himself in and utilize whatever was there for the taking, but on occasion that wasn't enough even for himself. This was one of those occasions.

The south loop was particularly dangerous and he did his best to avoid the area, but for what he needed, it was the best option. He wouldn't dare to try to pocket anything in the convenience stores, or reach into the purse of a stranger, he would keep to himself and let his feet carry him to the shitty hotel that he had learned could be an oasis for smaller needs.

It wasn't particularly clean, but the water ran hot and the housekeeping staff was particularly negligent.

He slipped into the first propped open door he found, hanging the do not disturb sign on the outside handle and locking the door behind him. There was an open suitcase on one of the double beds and a watch on the counter in the bathroom.

He took no longer than was necessary to scrub himself, using the small complimentary bottles to scrub his greasy hair and a towel that was still neatly folded, hoping that meant it was unused.

It was always a heart-pounding experience. He had yet to be caught, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't be and it was a particularly vulnerable position to put himself in.

He sniffed the tube of deodorant on the counter before he used it, nearly gagging at the fake flower scent. It would have to do. The watch found its way to his wrist. It was a bit too big and he wasn't sure that it was actually worth anything, but he would find out.

He slipped out as easily as he slipped in, feeling just a bit more human as he made his way back north, pausing at a food stand and handing over the last wrinkled five dollar bill in his pocket.

Sunday.

_Or do you come to fantasize about my legs wrapped around your neck later?_

* * *

When the door swung open, he was already there, clutching a half-dead flower stupidly in his hand. "Christine," he greeted the moment he caught sight of her golden hair.

"Oh!" she breathed, pausing a moment before she stepped out into the alleyway with him, hand clutching that same long black jacket closed. "Jesus Christ, you scared me."

He only held the flower up between them, looking at her closely. He wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed that she had freckles before. They peppered her nose and cheeks, dulled but not quite hidden beneath a thin layer of foundation. Vaguely, he wondered what other secrets she was trying to hide.

She bit her plump bottom lip and stared at the flower. "What's that?"

"A flower," he answered dumbly, as though she didn't have eyes to see it for herself. He wondered if she meant to ask about the kind of flower but the truth was, he didn't have the slightest idea what it was. He only knew that it was a pretty gentle pink, it was still blooming, and when he had seen it, he thought only of her. "For you."

"Most men bring diamonds, you know," she murmured. But she took it anyway, and when she lifted it to her nose, she couldn't hide her sad smile.

"But you do not want diamonds," he chanced, tilting his head slightly as though he could decipher her if only he looked at her from the right angle. "And I am not most men."

She stared fully into the slightly wilting bloom of the flower, twirling the stem slowly between her thumb and forefinger. "I've forgotten your name."

"Erik," he supplied easily.

"Right," she breathed, the words almost a whisper. "Erik, then."

"I will not forget your name."

She blinked, and then she was finally looking up from the flower and at him. "You shouldn't buy me flowers, Erik," she said slowly.

"Then it's good that I didn't buy it," he answered, wishing that he could understand what it was that lingered in her eyes. "I clipped it myself."

He hoped to hear that same breathy laugh or perhaps some sarcastic quip, but neither came. She simply stared at him, and then she swallowed. "You shouldn't bring me flowers, then," she said, trying again. "You shouldn't bring me flowers because I will break your heart."

"If you have no soul, I have no heart," he answered slowly, drawing closer to her. When he lifted his hand, she didn't flinch away. He let his thumb ghost over her cheek, not daring to actually touch her. "I will continue to bring you flowers."

Her brows drew together as she stared up at him. "You smell like women's deodorant," she mumbled.

"I imagine I do."

Finally, he was rewarded with that breathy laugh that he had been hoping to hear. "Will you stay to hear me sing, Erik?"

"I come for your voice," he answered, withdrawing his hand in fear that he might actually touch her if he let it linger too long. "I will stay to listen."

She gave the flower another thoughtful twirl as she stared into his eyes. "Then I will sing for you tonight… and your flowers," she murmured. "And afterwards, you can tell me whether you still have no heart."


	4. Chapter 4

He had to wait. He lingered until at least one song was through before he slipped into his customary spot, tucked away at the tall table near the back corner where he could mostly hide in the shadow. It wasn't a particularly good spot but no one ever seemed to notice him there, which made it one of the best seats in the house in his mind.

She seemed to be searching the room, and when her eyes finally found him he knew that he had been seen. He could see it in the way her posture shifted. He leaned forward against the table and watched as she tucked the flower carefully into her pinned curls.

It was a silly thing, seeing the half dead thing hang there. It was the palest pink and it hardly matched her dark lips and black dress. He only thought that the next one should be red.

Christine always sang sadly, but that night there was something particularly compelling in it. He couldn't quite be sure if there was actually something different or whether the difference was simply that she told him that it was for him. She shivered, she closed her pretty blue eyes to him, and there was something there that he simply couldn't look away from.

She had a million secrets and he wanted to pluck every one of them from her. He wanted to learn every hidden freckle, what exactly had led her to that tiny, hidden stage. He wanted to know what exactly it was that she tucked behind the fearless sort of bravado she hid herself in.

Every inflection of her voice, every guarded look she gave him, he wanted to pick them apart.

He wanted to see her on something more than the tiny chatter-crowded stage. It was true that she would break his heart; she already had by simply existing.

He could reach out and touch her, if he could only bring himself to, but she seemed a mere figment of his imagination.

For the first time in his life, Erik thought that he might actually be afraid of something. A funny thing, that it would be a girl less than half his size with a dying flower tucked in her hair.

The only thing that he did know, by the end of her set, was that he couldn't wait a full seven days to see her again.

There was no way of knowing what exit she typically used, or how long she lingered at the end of the night. He hadn't ever waited around long enough to find out, preferring to disappear before anyone could approach him and tell him that his presence was undesirable as though he wasn't already aware of it.

_And afterwards, you can tell me whether you still have no heart._

He opted to wait by the alleyway door. If she was going to seek him out, it was the only place that he could think she would know to check. Besides that fact, it was fairly dark between the close buildings and it was the best place for him to disappear from prying eyes. He could not hide nearly as well under the bright streetlights, and so it seemed the only choice to be made.

Erik had only just been ready to give up when she finally stepped into the alleyway, lacking the jacket she had worn earlier in the day and the flower still hanging from her hair. It seemed to only take a moment for her eyes to find him, lingering across the way.

"It's a perennial," she said.

He could see the goosebumps forming on her skin from feet away, but she hardly even shivered. "I don't know flowers," he answered, frowning slightly. "I only knew that it was pretty."

Her steps were confident as she approached him. "I sang for you tonight," she said, standing so near that he would touch her accidentally if he only shifted. "Do you have a heart?"

"Not even a beat," he answered, watching her face closely. Something was different and he couldn't quite place it. "You have a lovely voice, Christine."

Her smile was far easier. "It's cold," she said, giving an exaggerated shiver.

And it was. Erik had been freezing for at least a month now, and her bare arms were nothing but raised goosebumps. He could see her breath. He wasn't sure what he would do without it, but he found himself unzipping his new jacket anyway, ready to hand it to her.

And he would have, if she wouldn't have stopped him by covering his hand with hers. "I have to help tear down," she mumbled.

"Of course."

"Would you wait for me?" she asked softly.

He swallowed, staring back at her and her enlarged pupils. "Of course," he repeated slowly.

"Even in the cold?"

The only thing he could do was nod. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he would be out in the cold regardless of whether it was there or elsewhere. He had exactly two dollars left in his pocket and it wasn't going to take him far.

She chewed on the inside of her lip thoughtfully. "Come inside with me," she murmured.

"I will be asked to leave."

When she pulled at his hand, he let her, drawing it between them and wrapping her hand around his palm as she stared down at them. "No one will see you," she murmured. "Come with me, Erik. Please."

When she took a step back, tugging on his hand, he found himself compelled to follow. Powerless, even, to disobey the way that she pulled at him. It was all in his head, he was sure of that. The slight girl couldn't match him in strength and if he wanted to pull away, she wouldn't have been able to stop him.

It wasn't her physical strength. It was her eyes. Her sad eyes and her breathy laugh, her pretty curls that looked so incredibly soft.

The door closed behind them, and almost immediately she was finishing the job he had begun, her fingers unzipping his jacket with ease and moving to tug at his worn belt.

"What are you doing."

"You have no heart," she said, finally feeding the creased leather through the buckle of the belt. "Do you like whiskey, Erik?"

The only thing that he could do was let his hands hover somewhere near her elbows, too frightened to actually stop her. "Yes," he answered breathlessly.

"I think it's whiskey, in that one," she said, gesturing toward a tall crate pushed against the grey cement wall. "I want you to fuck me on the whiskey, and then we will drink it. Romance."

"Christine." He had been wrong. She hadn't stolen his breath, that first time. No, this time she had stolen his breath, paralyzed his lungs. Even had he wanted to, he wasn't sure that he would have been able to stop her as she unbuttoned his pants.

"You do want to fuck me, don't you?" she murmured.

"You will get a sliver," he answered breathlessly, unable to look at anything except for the rough crate across the room as her fingers caressed the shape of him through his boxers.

"Well, that's what makes it exciting," she answered, letting go of him and taking a step backwards. He caught his slightly oversized jeans with one hand, eyes watching her suspiciously as she took slow backwards steps, her hands sliding under her silky dress.

The thong that dropped to the floor was black and she stepped out of it with practiced ease.

"On the whisky, Erik," she said again, pulling herself onto the edge of the crate and gathering her skirt up as she spread her knees open. "You have no heart and I would like to fuck you, too."

It was a terrible idea, horrible, he thought as he gazed at her, at her pale, round knees and the heel of her black pump that was tapping rhythmically against the side of the wooden crate. He took a step toward her and she spread her arms wide, almost as though it were in celebration.

He did, in fact, have a heart. He knew because it was suddenly racing so intensely he thought it might beat straight through his ribcage.

When he was close enough, that same heel that had been bouncing off of the crate wrapped behind his knee and she tugged him closer.

There was quiet for a moment, rustling fabric and the clang of his belt as she reached between them.

The only thought in his head when her hand wrapped around him was that he wasn't sure how it was so warm when he could still see clearly defined goosebumps lining her pale arms and neck.

"I will fuck you on the whiskey," she murmured, tilting her chin up to look at him as her warm hand pumped slowly. "And next week you will be gone, because you are exactly like most men."

He wasn't sure how exactly it was that he could hear her through the blood rushing through his eardrums. "You're wrong," he answered, doing his best to hold eye contact with her.

"Touch me, Erik," she murmured, her voice low.

So he did. The pads of his fingers brushed feather-light against the raised goosebumps on her arms, over the half-inch straps of her dress, up her slender throat until the tips of his fingers rested just under her chin. He swallowed thickly as he gazed at her face, at her pretty blue eyes, her small nose, her plump, darkly colored lips.

"You can kiss me," she said softly. "If you truly have no heart."

With the invitation so blatantly given, Erik found that he had no choice, heart or not. In that moment, he very much felt that he may die if he didn't feel her lips, if he didn't learn exactly how soft they were for himself.

He had never kissed anyone before, but she didn't seem to mind his hesitation. Her soft lips still brushed gently against his, and he thought that she may have gotten a head start. He could already taste whiskey on her breath.

His lips were still against hers when her second heel dug against his calf, when she bumped him closer and slid her hips to the edge of the crate.

They swallowed each other's gasps when she thrust herself upon him.

Her eyes were closed tightly when she let her head fall back, exposing her pale throat and spilling her curls down her back as she rolled herself against him a second time. Following her lead, he rolled forward against her, and found himself rewarded with a breathy sort of sound from her lips.

Her hand was still warm when it found his, and she guided it blindly to her breast.

It wasn't so difficult, learning what exactly it was that she wanted. Gentle touches, experimental gropes, he listened closely to every sound she made, watched the tension in her brow.

His hand slid around her back and when he leaned over her, desperate for a better angle, she made no complaint, letting her back rest against the rough crate and walking her heels up just a bit higher.

The next kiss was initiated by her, and he thought that she was simply using it to muffle her moan as her nails dug into the sleeves of his jacket.

For the first time in weeks, Erik was actually warm, beyond warm, and when he shuddered, he couldn't bring himself to do anything other than lean over her, feeling her hot breath against his throat and chin.

There was silence, and for a moment he thought something was wrong. Her hands twisted nervously against his sleeves, the breath that she took was shaky, but it passed just as suddenly as it seemed to come.

She blinked up at him, and pressed her warm palms firmly against his chest. "Get up," and she breathed it urgently, so urgently that it almost sounded like a panic, but she took a slow breath and her next words were much calmer. "I want a drink."

She was gorgeous, he thought, and he certainly had a heart.

She flinched just the slightest bit when he pulled out of her, but when she slipped from the edge of the crate and her feet found the floor, it was almost as though nothing had happened at all.

She lifted the edge of the crate as he pulled himself back together, and it wasn't until she selected a bottle that he noticed the way her fingers shook.

"Will you bring me flowers next week?" she asked, twisting the cap of the bottle off without looking at him.

"Every week," he answered.

"I don't believe you," she said, frowning and holding the bottle toward him. "Will you please get that out? I never can."

He found his pocket knife and popped the pour-control cap off easily, holding the bottle back toward her. "You don't have to believe me," he said as she took it.

She frowned and lifted the bottle to her lips, taking a deep drink as she leaned against the side of the crate. Without looking, she held the bottle toward him again.

He took it easily, and the drink he took was far smaller than her own.

"I like lilacs," she said, her voice small and quiet.

"Lilacs," he echoed, holding the bottle back out toward her. They were long out of season and he wasn't sure where he would ever find one, but he would remember it anyway. "Of course."

She took another swig from the bottle and wiped at her mouth with the back of her wrist. "Magenta ones," she added, finally glancing at him.

"Magenta lilacs," he repeated, watching her closely. "I will remember, Christine. And I will bring you a flower."

"I'll forget your name again," she mumbled, running her thumb along the glass lip of the bottle.

"Then I will remind you."

She huffed out a laugh that he wasn't sure was actually a laugh and glanced down the long cement hallway he had first wandered down. "You have to go," she murmured. "Or someone will see you."

He wasn't sure that it was true, but he was sure that he didn't want her to stop stepping out into the alleyway, so he fixed his jacket and zipped it. "I will bring you a lilac," he promised.

She didn't answer, and when he stepped back out into the blistering cold, she didn't move an inch.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik stared up at the grey sky with a frown. Big, fluffy, fat snowflakes floated down slowly and he eyed them with disdain, wrapping his arms around his middle and hunching under his sweatshirt. It was early this year. The leaves hadn't quite finished falling yet, so he was almost certain there was a chance of a slight reprieve before it came to stay.

He was fairly sure that there had been a time when he enjoyed the snow. He wondered what it had been like.

It didn't really matter, he thought. He complained to himself just as obnoxiously when it was too hot in the summer. It was Spring that he actually enjoyed, cool but just warm enough coming out of the harsher months.

In the Spring, he would complain about the rain. So really, he thought, it was just that he couldn't be happy.

When he expressed any sort of emotion as a child, his mother would tell him to count his blessings. Sometimes he tried to. One of them was that he didn't get quite as wet with the snow as he did with the rain.

Another was that he was fairly sure that the heavy ring that he had swiped off of the counter in a bathroom in one of the many parks that dotted the city would get him a real bed for at least one night. It might even be enough for a bed and an entire bouquet of magenta lilacs if he was smart enough.

There were very few places that would do any sort of business with him. He knew of only three pawn shops that would let him get through the door, and only one that would accept his wares. He wasn't sure what exactly they would do with them; everything he brought in was stolen, or lost, and the only thing that they had ever rejected was a cell phone that he had been placing a bit too much hope in. In the end, the man had a soft heart and gave him a twenty dollar bill to dispose of it.

The door chimed when he pushed it open and he was greeted customarily by the middle eastern man that always seemed to occupy the shop. "What treasures have you brought us today?"

The man had a kind smile and green eyes. Erik didn't know much about him at all, only that he owned the shop and was happily married to someone he had never met. Erik produced the ring and laid it on the counter as he undid the watch that had been rubbing uncomfortably against his wrist for a few days.

"It isn't off a dead man, is it?"

Erik huffed a laugh. "No," he answered. "Not yet. Though we'll see how harsh this winter gets."

"Desperation is for innovation, not murder," the man murmured as he picked the ring up and turned it over in his palm.

"Do you know any florists?"

"Not that sell poppy," he answered, frowning suspiciously. "You will blow yourself up before you actually manage to make anything usable."

"I'm not cooking drugs," Erik laughed. "Though again, we will see how harsh the winter gets… there is a woman, and I require a florist."

"A woman!" he echoed, sounding pleasantly surprised as he placed the ring back onto the countertop. "I'm afraid I'm not close with any particular florists… there's one two blocks west that may be able to help you. I can do three hundred. For both."

Though Erik had hoped for more, fool as he was, it was a higher price than he had actually expected and he found himself nodding in agreement. If he managed it right, it might even buy him a few days out of the cold.

"Tell me about the woman," the man said as he shuffled the ring into a display case.

"She is very beautiful," Erik answered vaguely. "She sings, and she could make the angels cry."

"Infatuation is a wonderful thing," he answered, sliding the display case back into place and pulling an envelope from under the counter. "You should enjoy it."

He made a show of it as he counted twenty dollar bills out one by one, placing them on the counter top. "I very much will," Erik said, collecting the bills nervously.

"I would very much like to hear more about the woman," his strange acquaintance said. "When I see you next week, as I'm sure I will."

Erik frowned, tucking the bills safely away in a pocket. "Me too," he answered honestly.

His first stop, of course, would be the florist.

* * *

This time, when she stepped out into the alleyway, she didn't seem particularly surprised to see him. She only pulled her jacket a little tighter as she eyed him from a few feet away. "Did you bring my flower?"

"Of course," he answered easily, holding the single, fat lilac out toward her.

She stared at it for a long moment with a slight frown, and when she took it from him her fingers brushed against his almost purposely. "Did you clip it yourself?"

"Yes," he lied lightly. "It was very difficult to find."

For the first time since he had met her, she actually looked like she might cry. She lifted the bunch of flowers up to her nose and closed her eyes. "I love lilacs," she murmured, her voice soft, as though it might shake if she spoke any louder.

"It wasn't supposed to make you sad."

She blinked, and when she lifted her head to look at him the shine was gone from them. "I'm not sad," she answered. "I just didn't think you would find them. I can't hardly find them even in the flower shops this time of year."

"Have you forgotten my name?"

Her smile was slightly strained. "I told you I would."

For the first time, he dared to touch her on his own, the tips of his cold fingers brushing against her high, warm cheek. "It doesn't matter anyway."

She looked at him strangely, chewing the inside of her bottom lip. "You're right, you know," she said slowly. "You aren't like most men. You're very strange."

He wasn't sure whether the words were meant as an insult or a compliment but she didn't pull away from his touch, so he thought it might not matter so much either way. "I suppose I am."

"Erik?"

He didn't point out that she had not, in fact, forgotten his name. He wondered if she ever actually had in the first place. "What?"

"I want you to take me home," she confessed, the words quiet and almost warm.

He only stared at her, halfway holding his breath. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer her.

"Right," she said, forcing a laugh as she pulled away from him. "Silly, isn't it? It's just that you were right, is all. I got a splinter."

He watched helplessly as she dug through the pocket of her jacket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes, turning away from him slightly as she lit one and took a slow drag.

"I'll take you home," he said, hardly even knowing that he was speaking.

"No," she said, the word half a laugh. "It's silly. Just a passing thought, it isn't - I will use my jacket this time, and I won't get a splinter."

"I want to take you home," he insisted, the words coming faster than his mind could even determine where exactly that was. "I'll take you home, Christine."

She looked at him curiously. "You mean it?"

He nodded. It was decently warm out. It wasn't a day that he would have used to justify spending any of the money in his pocket under normal circumstances, but if it would keep that hurt frown off of her face, he would spend it all.

She took another drag from her cigarette and then she tossed it out toward the center of the alleyway, as she always did, and made a show of tucking the magenta flower into her curls just as she had with the dying perennial the week before. "I have to sing," she said simply.

"That is why I've come," he reminded her.

She rocked up on her toes, and pressed a quick kiss to his chin. "You will have to wait here an hour."

"I will wait two," he answered, hand lingering near her elbow.

Her smile was almost shy, and he watched as she disappeared back into the building without another word.

* * *

He was remarkably nervous when she joined him again, silently wrapping her too warm hand around his arm without a word.

He had promised to take her home, and he had no home to take her to. He knew exactly where they would go. It was the only place that would let him through the door. But it didn't ease his nervousness. Some days, when he had enough money in his pocket to give him the coveted privacy, he wondered if the amenities in the park weren't a better option.

If she wanted him to give her four walls and a bed, he would give her four walls and a bed as best as he could.

She didn't say much of anything as they made their way through the chilly streets, she only tucked herself closer against his side when the wind picked up particularly harshly. It was a ten block walk and she never uttered a word through the entirety of it, never asked where he was taking her, never so much as asked what he thought of her performance.

He thought that perhaps it was because she already knew what his answer would be. Lovely. It wasn't a lie. It was always lovely.

"Wait here," he said softly when they finally stood outside of the old, ramshackled hotel. "I need to take care of something. I'll only be a minute."

"I'll wait," she said easily.

He went in ahead. The staff was familiar enough with him, or word of him, that it was never a particular fight. One hundred and fifty a night and he wasn't completely convinced that they actually washed all of the sheets. The building had an odd odor to it that he had never really been able to place, but it was an oasis on the days that it was the only shelter he could find. Occasionally the cost was worth it simply to take his mask off for a few hours.

He held the electronic key-card nervously in his hand when he rejoined her, and she wordlessly put out the cigarette she had lit in his absence.

She made no comment as he led her through the building and up two flights of stairs. She didn't flinch or even acknowledge the shouting coming from somewhere far down the tar-stained hallway.

204\. The card worked flawlessly and he flipped on the lightswitch near the door, taking her jacket for her as she gazed around the hotel room.

Everything about it had an odd yellow look to it, stained with nicotine and years of poor cleaning, but the carpet looked clean enough and there was no visible dust on the dresser. He hung her jacket on one of the three wire hangers in the small cutout coat closet, opting to hang his own on the back of the chair across the room.

"You live here?"

Her voice was lacking the judgement and disappointment he might have expected to hear. It was a soft question as she lingered somewhere near the door, fingers pulling gently at the pleating of her dress. "I'm afraid the chateau is being remodeled," he answered noncommittally. "It may be another decade or so, before it's ready."

"Erik," she said, her voice halfway serious. "Do you live here?"

When he looked at her, there was a striking realization. She didn't belong. She didn't fit in with her silky skirts and her pretty pout, her sad blue eyes. "No," he answered eventually. "I don't."

"Then where do you live?"

Slowly, he approached her. When the tips of his fingers slipped under her jaw, she let him tilt her chin up. "I live in a castle," he murmured. "If you close your eyes, I will show you."

"Erik-"

"Close your eyes," he repeated softly. "Please."

She sighed, but she obeyed him, her eyes slipping closed. "Okay."

"What do you smell?"

"Urine."

He chuckled, brushing his thumb gently against her cheek. "You are peeking," he said softly. "If you peek, it won't work. You must close your eyes, Christine."

She huffed and blinked her eyes open. "I'm not a child," she gruffed.

"I should very much hope not," he answered easily. "Close your eyes, Christine."

To his surprise, she did, her frown seeming to deepen just the slightest bit.

"I smell lilacs," he murmured. "And roses. There are dozens of bushes. It always smells of lilac. What do you see, Christine?"

"Carpet," she answered, her brow furrowing. "The plush kind that your toes sink in."

"Of course," he murmured. "It gets quite cold, you know, near winter. There must be carpet. What color?"

"Red," she murmured, her hand finding his wrist. "Is it in the mountains?"

He dared to press his lips gently to her warm forehead, closing his eyes for a moment, too. "Of course," he answered slowly. "On the highest peak, where none of those troubles you have can touch you."

Her nails dug into his wrist, and when he opened his eyes, she was staring at him intensely. "I will break your heart," she breathed.

"And I will build you a castle," he answered simply, searching her eyes. "Do you say it because you want to?"

She swallowed as she stared back at him and he watched the shine gathering in her blue eyes as she did.

"I'll let you," he said eventually. "It doesn't matter."

"Where do you live, Erik?" she whispered, the words shaky.

"Everywhere," he answered softly. "And no where."

She blinked quickly, almost like she was trying to blink away the vague tears that had been threatening her. "Are you homeless, then?"

"I suppose that would be the word for it."

She only frowned, pulling away from him as she wiped at her own cheek. "Right," she said softly. "Where do you stay?"

"Wherever I can," he answered simply. From the moment she had made the breathless request he knew that she would find out and he had desperately leaned on the hope that she would be too concerned about maintaining the aloofness she had to truly question him on it. "Some nights, like tonight, I am very lucky and it's a place like this."

"Do you work?"

"It is notoriously difficult to find employment in a mask," he murmured. And it wasn't a lie. He would gladly have worked four jobs if anyone would react to him with anything other than fear - he had found very few that did, and he had found no one that acted the way that Christine did with him, so free and fearless as she was. When she was around, he could nearly convince himself that he was normal. "I'm a magician of sorts."

"A magician," she echoed, and for the first time her laugh didn't sound forced.

"Of sorts," he repeated, finding himself slightly encouraged. "I am very good at making things vanish."

"You're a thief."

His smile was slightly strained. "I'm a transient magician, Christine."

"You're a heartsick fool is what you are," she said, lifting her chin as she gazed at him.

"Perhaps I am," he agreed lightly.

"And I'm not," she said thoughtfully. "That is why I'll break your heart… I'd like you to kiss me, Erik."

So he did, because it was a request he couldn't resist, and when she pulled away, she sighed.

"I had a lover once," she murmured, biting her lip. "Wealthy, much older than you, I think. Promised me diamonds and gold."

He wasn't sure why she said it but he didn't mind. She so rarely shared anything that she could have told him about a childhood pet and he would find himself satisfied. He brushed his thumb gently against her cheek. "What happened?"

"His wife tried to kill me," she said with a light laugh. "Imagine my surprise… no one is who they seem, Erik. No one."

"Are you?"

"Everyone is a liar," she murmured vaguely, her hands running up his chest and her arms snaking around his neck. "I want you to kiss me."

So he did, and he let himself touch her pretty, carefully pinned curls. They were just as soft and silky as he imagined. Her hands slid down his arms, pausing on his biceps.

"I'm not," he murmured, pressing his masked forehead to hers. "I will build you a castle, Christine."

"I want you to undress me," she said, her voice quiet. "I want you to fuck me in a bed, and I want you to keep lying to me."

"I'm not lying."

"Of course," she answered breathily.

He ran his fingers through her hair, against her pale, delicate throat, he let them ghost over the straps of her dress. "I will make your dreams come true," he murmured, however ridiculous it sounded. "Whatever they cost."

Christine rocked up on her toes and rewarded him with a gentle kiss, tugging at the hem of his stolen t-shirt. "I want you to fuck me like you love me," she said, the words quiet and low.

He didn't dare to point out that he very much thought he might.

There were more kisses, more sighs, her hands against his chest were gentle, her kisses warm, and he thought that if he died that night, he would have been satisfied with it. Warm, in her company, with her lips against his.

She pressed him back toward the two double beds and his hands wandered with a new confidence against her silky dress, around her back. When he found the zipper, she made no complaint about him undoing it. His cold, slightly shaky fingers slid the straps down her arms, and she let the dress drop to the floor, stepping back slightly as though to let him examine her.

There was a sort of fear as he looked at her, at her padded bra that was a bit too tight, at the visible outline of her ribs and the pink scars that marred her pale skin, some long and thin, others small and round, seemingly distributed randomly, all faded and old but quite easily visible.

He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed just how thin she was. He dared to allow himself the excuse of distraction with the frilly, silky things that she wore.

She only stood there, staring back at him steadily as though she were awaiting some sort of judgement, and the only thing he could do was kiss her and swallow the odd, halfway distressed sound that she made when he did.

It only seemed to take her a moment before she remembered herself, pulling at his shirt meaningfully, and he didn't feel quite as uncomfortable with stripping his shirt over his head as he thought he might, didn't feel as offput with the way her fingers traced against his cool skin as he thought he would with any other person.

Off came her bra, her breasts seeming to shrink two sizes.

Where he might have felt tricked, he only found himself intrigued with her. Her and her hidden scars, her unshakable bravado, the lengths she seemed to go to hide everything about herself from anyone that might give her a passing glance when she was all dolled up on that little stage.

He found himself wondering who she actually was, and as she stood there, bare and flushed and scarred, he thought that perhaps there was hope that he would draw it out of her with some patience.

Her back found the uncomfortably hard mattress, her legs opened to welcome him in a way very similar to the way they had the week before, and he slipped into place with just a bit more confidence.

It was fine, easy, it felt incredibly right as her soft lips brushed against his, as she made breathless sounds and her heels dug against his sides.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't.

He wasn't sure what exactly happened, only that she suddenly tensed, suddenly seemed to be holding her breath, digging her nails in painfully against his arms, and he couldn't do anything but pause, trying to catch his breath for a moment.

"What's wrong?" he murmured, looking closely at her tensed jaw and suddenly guarded eyes.

"On top," she breathed after a long moment, seeming to release the breath she had been holding. "I need on top. Now."

Her hands pressed insistently against his chest, her fingers curling, and he moved as quickly as he could seeing the sudden panic lingering in her eyes.

When she did roll over, climbing atop him, everything was different.

She didn't kiss him again. Instead she closed her eyes and she moved with a practised ease, hands resting against the center of his chest as she did.

There was no hesitation. She moved with purpose and she knew exactly what she was doing as his hands rested uselessly against her hips.

He felt it building, he blinked, and before he could even realize that he had finished she was climbing off of him, gathering her discarded clothing off of the floor with trembling fingers.

"Christine," he said breathlessly.

She gave no acknowledgement, bending down with her back to him to step back into her thong, pulling it back up quickly.

He lifted himself on his elbows, watching her and the urgency she seemed to be moving with. "Christine."

"Don't bring me flowers anymore," she said, her voice trembling.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said, trying to keep his voice soft even though he couldn't catch his breath and he was still fighting through the fog hazing his brain.

"I don't want you to come again," she said, back still turned to him as she attempted to fasten her bra behind her. "I don't want you to come hear me sing."

He was standing, and he caught one of her arms easily. "Tell me what I've done," he murmured as she finally turned toward him. "Tell me what's wrong."

It wasn't until she lifted her chin to look up at him that he saw the fat tears leaking from her eyes, pulling a black streak of mascara down her cheek with them.

He sighed, lifting his free hand and wiping one away with his thumb, strangely fascinated with the freckles that began to appear under his touch. "I don't know what happened," he said softly. "If that's what you want, you have to tell me why."

She swallowed, her lip trembled, and he thought it was just about the most vulnerable she had ever let herself look in front of him. "I don't want to do this anymore," she breathed.

"You never had to," he said softly, hoping that the words were at least somewhat comforting. "I would happily only listen to you sing, Christine. Anything more - it's wonderful but you don't have to do it. I will still bring you flowers either way."

There was a new flood of tears and she closed her eyes, almost as though she thought he couldn't see them if she simply couldn't see him. "I don't want you to be nice to me," she whispered shakily.

With her insistence on being cryptic, he did the only thing he could. He held her silky curls and pressed his lips against her forehead gently. "I don't know what's happened to you," he said slowly. "Or what's happened tonight. But I know that you are beautiful, talented, and I want to bring you flowers, Christine."

When she leaned against him, pressing her wet face against his chest and wrapping her arms around him tightly, he thought it might've been permission.

He smoothed her hair gently. "Will you lay with me for a minute, at least, before you run away again?" he murmured.

She sniffed and slowly, she nodded against him.


End file.
